Trust
by Nakanna Lee
Summary: The third edition to my fics Home and Change. Distance and some unexpected visitors might cause trouble. Friendship, Slash. Edited final chapter! Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

House told me he was moving to New York.

The morning is not the greatest time to make announcements, especially when it's told to someone who has just barely woken up. I rubbed at my eyes, still languid from slumber, and gazed at him.

A smirk spread across his face as he leaned over me, practically daring me to choose between kissing him or deriving a clearer explanation. I'd gotten sufficient amounts of the first over the past three weeks; the latter was what seemed slightly more important now.

I cleared my throat from its morning croak. "Are you mocking me?"

"At the moment, no. I'm sure I'll have an opportunity to do that later, Jimmy."

"As usual. So what's this about New York then?"

"Cuddy is sending me on missionary duty. I have to give some lectures at some rather disturbingly important hospitals." House sighed in parodied vanity. "Being famous just isn't what it's cracked up to be. How can I stay home and waste time if Cuddy's sending me on tour?"

"How many hospitals?"

"The schedule was three pages of terror. I stopped reading when I realized I didn't have a choice anyway."

"Three pages?" I repeated, puzzled. "How long do they expect these lectures to be…?"

"Well, it's a week's worth of lectures."

"Oh. That's not bad."

"And another three weeks of some group-study in New York City."

"_Three weeks_?"

"Yeah. They've got doctors from all over the planet, getting together to rehash some unsolvable cases that are unsolvable for a reason: They can't be solved."

I rubbed my forehead. "How much time off of clinic duty is Cuddy giving you for this?"

House grinned smugly. "She's practically giving me a blank check."

"I guarantee you that one might bounce."

"Have a little faith." House considered kissing me for a second, then apparently thought it was better to leave me waiting as he rolled out of bed. He was halfway out the door when he peeked his head back in. "Oh, by the way, I'm putting you in charge of the ducklings. They'll need some looking after."

I had a strange, comical vision of us adopting the interns. "Well, I'll try to keep the three in line."

"The two," House corrected.

"Two?"

"Yep." He retrieved his cane from beside the piano bench. "Chase and Foreman. Cameron's coming to New York with me."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

I followed him out into the living room and kitchen, where the light seemed ridiculously bright against my sleep-drowsy eyes. "Cameron's coming?" I repeated.

"Is that an insulted tone I hear?" House asked. He sighed, lips pursed, as he leaned back momentarily and regarded me with one of those blunt stares that never quite meet the other's eyes. "Well, I certainly couldn't take _you_."

I must have balked. In fact, I'm sure I did.

House shrugged a laidback shoulder and rummaged through the fridge like he was actually looking for something. "The hospital's paying for the hotel room, so if for some reason I'd get particularly distracted there it's not money out of my pocket."

I flushed, which House took as a compliment. On some level, we both knew better than to bring any further distractions to work—and further opportunities for rumors.

We hadn't quite worked out all the kinks of this new relationship yet. There was always the coming out part, and I highly doubted even a brilliant white board brainstorm would help us with that.

All in good time.

I conceded half his argument, but only half. "Why not Foreman or Chase?"

"Well, let's see. If I wanted to be one-upped in everything I did, I would definitely take Foreman. If I wanted to be brown-nosed in everything I did, I would definitely take Chase."

"And you would definitely take Cameron if…?"

"If I wanted to make you jealous. I find your reaction extremely interesting, Jimmy."

-----------------------------

The plane tickets were spread out on the kitchen table like self-content sunbathers, just recently excavated from his wallet. He'd had them for a week and hadn't told me, correctly assuming that—had I'd known—I would've figured out some way to join him in New York. Control is something House doesn't take lightly.

The coffee maker gurgled its commentary as he passed the cream to me, in exchange for the sugar. I'd noted the parallels between how we'd made our morning dose of caffeine—sugar and cream, separate and yet even better together. He accused the whiskey for making me gloppy and sentimental. I'd agreed, but still found the comparison relative.

He was still stuck on the Cameron discussion, mostly because I wasn't about to let it go, either. Steam from the coffee swirled in gray-white calligraphy in front of his face as he took a scalding sip, musing, "Think of it as a test: avoiding temptation."

I raised an eyebrow skeptically, wavering in more confidence than I wanted to reveal. House caught the look but was hardly anxious to assuage my fears.

"She's too whiney to be attractive. And all those moral hang-ups…" House shuddered for show. "No, I think not only will we have separate beds, but separate rooms may be in order. You don't think she snores, do you?"

I knew when the conversation was going nowhere. As a last result, I perused the newspaper offhandedly, trying to look less concerned than what I felt. Phillies lost again, big surprise. House put a finger on the top corner of the Sports section and snatched it back an inch, prompting me to look up at him again.

He narrowed his eyes in melodramatic concentration, his forehead furrowing with wrinkles. "I expect you to behave, too."

I laughed a bit. "What am I, two?"

"I'd be less worried about a two-year-old. The worst they can do is color on the walls. You, on the other hand…"

This was the last time in thirty days that I'd see him. Being glib just didn't seem like proper tone to wrap up our departure. Lightly, I touched his wrist.

"House," I said seriously, my voice low and carefully measured. "I would never hurt you."

Sarcasm faded from his face. It was almost a genuine expression, but not exactly. Then it wouldn't have been House.

"I know." He paused. "But you might."

--------------------------------

I drove him to the airport though he said I didn't have to. Usually, when he said that, he meant he'd appreciate if I did. Cameron was there, too, dressed spotlessly in flaring, manila-colored pants and a blue, tight-fitting sweater she wore over that white, floppy-sleeved tunic.

I'll never understand women's clothing. Much too complicated. According to House, I can't even identify shoes correctly.

I know this much: She wasn't wearing Prada.

I also know this: She looked stunning, even at seven o'clock in the morning.

She pretended like she wasn't watching us carefully, but when you distract yourself with every fake plotted plant in the lobby, you're obviously very curious about what's happening right in front of you. I likewise wondered what House would do—I half-expected some overdramatic, mouth-consuming kiss, just to see what kind of rise he could get out of the crowd gathered, and out of Cameron especially.

He did nothing of the sort. He offered a professional handshake to me, which made me feel uncomfortably like a doctor (never thought that would be a problem). It lasted a second too long, though, but if you weren't paying ridiculously close attention, it wasn't catchable.

Cameron was paying close attention. To the fake plotted plants, at least, and so, consequently, to us as well.

I watched them shuffle out through the terminal, until I lost them amid the stream of other passengers.

There was less traffic on the way home, but it seemed to take much longer to get there.

-----------------------------

I considered my plans for the next month. Or week, yes, maybe that would be more practical and concise. Or just today. Yes, most definitely. Honestly, I had no idea what to do with myself, at least after work.

Poker wouldn't exactly be fun without House. Then again, he claimed it wasn't fun with me, either—I could see through him diaphanously. The slightest flash of blue-green in his eyes, or the quirk of an eyebrow, or the tilt of his lips…even the way he breathed sometimes—it all corresponded to his hand.

He was getting used to losing, and at some point had conceded me that much of an ego boost.

So, considering I didn't especially want to call up his friends from the bus stop and the unfortunate soul who's condemned to do his taxes, Poker was out. Baseball was an option, but if there's no one to talk strategy with, TiVoing the game just doesn't seem worth it.

What the heck had I done before moving in with House? I had to have done something constructive, or at least remotely fun, in my spare time. Now, though, the apartment would be empty, lacking the sarcastic tinge that strangely brought me so much relief.

Empty, yes, but clean at least. And food would not be confiscated.

---------------------------------------------

I was in the middle of parallel parking when I saw the figure loitering on our stoop.

The blouse was new, a buttoned-up shade of aqua-gray. The haircut had changed too, being cropped shorter. She'd gotten bangs as well, which she hadn't had in years. But the face was the same. It had once been ingrained in my head, and now resurfaced frantically like one drowning, flailing for attention.

Her eyes flashed with relieved recognition as I stepped warily out of the car. I thought she looked strange, unfamiliar, and it wasn't just the outfit or the hair. Then I realized she was crying.

I could do nothing but stare at her dully and wonder what had just happened to my organized life.

"_Julie_?"


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry it's taken me a bit to update, but I really wanted to make sure it read well. Please review... I really appreciate the feedback.

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I'd last seen her in court, when her attorney was making a depressingly thorough case about why she should get the house. Julie had worn some expensive black suit and blouse—again, I'm a horrible judge of clothes—but it was the strictest, severest ensemble she'd ever donned. It was something you'd wear in mourning or if you were about to carry out an assassination—grim, straightforward, callous. Accusatory.

Standing on the courtroom floor, I felt guilty, and I hadn't even been the one having the affair.

That façade melted right in front of me now. Had she been wearing mascara, it would have run like oil rivers down her face. Strange that she wasn't wearing any makeup at all. Her blonde hair was dry and frayed, framing her narrow face like windblown tumbleweed.

And she was crying.

My name dissolved into a smothered cry from her lips, and without another thought I was guiding her into the apartment. I instinctively draped an arm around her shoulders, but she flinched and drew back immediately.

If she hadn't been upset, I think I would've been offended.

In the apartment, she looked strangely out of place, a feral creature slipping into the tamed, learned habitat. We stood awkwardly before each other, as if we could judge by the air would could and couldn't be said, which steps to take where, which glances of concerns and depths of embraces should be shared.

After three divorces, it's still kind of difficult to tell what to do and when to do it. Still, panic and surprise usually overrule all those unspoken rules, and her distress boiled the awkwardness down to a puddle of nothing but concern.

"Julie, what's going on? What happened?"

She refused to look at me. The lamplight illuminated her pale face, making her shine with a waxy, moonlike glow. "I—I need somewhere to go."

Somewhere to go? She'd won the house. She'd apparently won some other man's heart too, or at least something that replaced me. Had she forgotten who'd been tossed out this time? Who'd been rejected?

I was about to say as much, defensiveness rushing up and nearly forcing me to blurt out things I knew, under any other circumstance, that I'd regret later. But then she started talking, in between sharp intakes of breath and straying eyes. And then she lowered her shirt, exposing her shoulders, her back, her pain.

I stared at the crisscrossed, random lines of red welts and bruises, speckling her skin like mistakes on a canvas. The room bulged, reality leaping out from my reach, stranding me there in the middle of what-to-say, what-to-do.

I cursed and enveloped her carefully as she collapsed in my arms.

--------------------------------------------------

"I'm gone for an hour and already there's a problem?"

House was obviously in the middle of New York somewhere, China Town judging by the ethnic jabbering and crisp, fluent haggling in the background. Phone cradled on my shoulder and pressed to my ear, I clandestinely peered around the corner from the bedroom, listening as Julie continued running the water for a warm, soaking bath I'd encouraged her to take.

"She needed a place to go," I said quietly.

House's sarcasm dripped over the phone, clogging my senses like earwax. "What, and she couldn't find a shelter anywhere in New Jersey?"

"Her boyfriend's an ass. She's scared. She has too much pride to check herself into a shelter."

"And yet she swallows her pride to go back to the man she cheated on?"

I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Look, her parents died five years ago. Her sister lives in Connecticut. I'm the only person she knows who's close."

"She doesn't have any friends from work?" I heard him distantly turn down a vendor's offer of a cheap watch. It was his great talent to never lose the tangent he was already on. "Any friends of the family? Old neighbors? Don't be stupid, James. She purposely went running to you."

In the bathroom at the end of the hall, the running water slowed to a modest flow. I could just hear the sloshing sounds as Julie apparently stepped into the tub. "So what am I supposed to do?" I hissed, already knowing what I'd decided anyway. "Turn her away?"

"I think that's what any responsible ex-husband would do."

"I'm so glad I called. I feel much more assured."

There was a pause on the other end. Either House had hung up or had gotten hung up with some rather interesting vendor. God knows selling what. I waited as a screech of tires vaguely floated though the line, followed by a diluted slam of a door and a harsh borough accent prodding for directions. House rambled off the hotel and street, and with another metallic slam the city noise became muffled.

"How expensive is a cab these days, James?"

"Worth every penny unless you want to hobble a couple dozen blocks."

"They don't mug cripples."

"I bet you could get donations if you sat down on the street and looked more pathetic than usual."

I could almost see House raising his eyebrows in amusement. We could've written each other's lines in our verbal sparring; it came so easily.

"So she'll be staying with you, then."

"Yes."

"In our apartment."

"Yes. I already asked if she called the police on him yet. She said she was afraid to."

"Stereotypical. What, was she afraid he was going to track her down for revenge if she did?"

"I think she's afraid he's still going to find her now."

"Wow." There was a pause, and I pictured House leaning back on the flattened leather seat cushions, the taxi pungent with the smell of stale cigarettes and city sweat. "Your marriage really must have sucked if she thinks getting beat up by a boyfriend is better."

"She didn't _know_ he was abusive," I retorted, and felt both parts embarrassed and responsible for defending her, regardless of the divorce. "It wasn't like he went around making a grand announcement of it."

"Has he always hit her?"

"_No_. Why else would she have gotten involved with him?"

"Maybe she didn't decide to. Maybe she was forced to."

The idea was intriguing and terrifying. The divorce didn't have to be a conscious decision she'd made, in that case. It could have been something someone else forced on us—maybe our marriage hadn't been that screwed up; maybe it could've been salvaged.

On second thought, I shook my head. "No. I saw the injuries. They're new. And no scars or any obvious trauma from the past." I sighed. Voluntary betrayal was much more painful, though the sting was taken off it slightly with the knowledge that this time, _this time_, I did not bear the guilt. "She told me she'd been seeing him for three months, that first month overlapping our last together, before she finally told me about the affair and I moved in with you."

"Three months. And this just sprang up now?"

"Yes."

"Odd."

"What?"

"Does he have any history of abusive relationships?"

"Yes, and he has a pet cat named Sue."

"I believe that's 'A Boy Named Sue,' Jimmy."

"House." I leaned up against the wall, staring at the ceiling and imaging I was looking at his face to convey my emotions clearer. "This isn't one of your patients. I didn't do a family history on this guy. All I know is he's an asshole for even _touching_ her, much less _hurting _her—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down there."

"I'm sorry, I'm just…worked up a bit I guess—"

"No, not you—the idiot who's driving this taxi. Hey! This is the third time we almost hit something! Keep this up and the both of us won't live to see the bill."

The faucet gurgled, trickled, then stopped in the bathroom. I heard her shift in the water, either sniffling or sighing, I couldn't tell. Probably running a slender finger over the bruises, like they were spilled paint, trying to wash off the burnt umbers and gray-greens and the tarnished yellows.

"…Jimmy. James. _Wilson._ Hey, you still there?"

"Yeah." I blinked. "Yeah, sorry. I'm here."

"Does Mr. Abusive have any inkling as to where Julie might have gone?"

I squinting, recalling our tense, raw conversation only a half-hour before. "No. Julie said she left his place while he was at work. She wrote a note saying she was going out to the store to pick up a few things and that she'd be right back."

"Oh, brilliant. So in a few hours Mr. Abusive will be issuing a missing person announcement to the police?"

"Apparently not. He's been threatening to leave her, so maybe this will have done the job for him."

"I don't think so," House said skeptically. "Abusers love dangling that as a threat. Women are so clingy. And even if he _did_ want to leave, _he _would be the one to do it; I don't think he's going to be too happy when he realizes his big 'exit-stage-left' bit has been taken by his understudy."

"You think he'll call the police?"

I could practically hear House's brain clicking into full gear over the phone. Either that, or the reception was horrible. "No. He has reason to think he might not be on good terms with the cops, especially if Julie panics and says something to them. No," House paused, and said something about missing a turn to the taxi driver, "I think he might try to find her on his own."

"But he has no way of knowing that she came here," I said, and then repeated it in my head just to reassure myself.

"As of now, it seems that way... Yeah, right here. The Ramada. Yes, it's stunning, isn't it? The fresh scent of bathroom sterilizers and free coffee for the breakfast buffet. _Mmmhmm_. Aphrodisiac, if I say so myself. Thank you, Cuddy."

House apparently forked over some ludicrous money for the drive and stepped back out into the raucous chorus of the city.

"So… She'll just stay here until she's sure she can go home without him waiting for her."

"Sounds like a plan. We'll just wait for our man to drop a line whenever the coast is clear, right?"

"Do you have any better suggestions?"

"Yes." There was a _whoosh, _and I assumed House had opened the hotel's glass doors, marching in leisurely like he owned the place. "I suggest you two sleep in separate rooms, avoid relationship discussions, and—when conversation gets uneasy, as it invariably will—you can always talk about me. There's something you both still have in common."

"Yeah. I'm sure she'll hate you just as much as before."

"Perhaps more so, given the current living arrangements." He paused. "So, are you going to tell her of your new involvement?"

I was relieved that I heard the drain being released and the ceramic squeak as Julie rose from the bathtub. For the moment, I wouldn't have to answer.

"I'll talk to you later, House. Tell Cameron I said to be strong."

"Oh, she'll be fine with these conferences."

"No. I meant, dealing with you."

I couldn't see him, but I knew we shared a smirk as we hung up.

Julie peeked her head out of the cracked door as I set down the phone. Her fair hair, glossy and dripping with water, accented the ruddiness in her heat-doused face. Steam floated out from the bathroom, swirling around her in a silky mist. Her eyelashes were so dark, like stratus clouds sprawled out over the green fields of her eyes.

"Do you have a shirt or something I could borrow?" she asked.

I blinked. "Um… Yeah, sure. Let me find one."

I rummaged through the closet and retrieved whatever I first set my hand on that was mine. She took the striped cotton shirt and sweatpants with a small smile; a modest, youthful look I'd hardly remembered, and one that had faded soon after our first two years together.

But one I remembered all the same.

I mentioned something about finding some salve to apply to her back, and she nodded gratefully, disappearing to change.

I dispersed toward the sink, rummaging through the cabinets until I found the lotion. She met my eyes in the mirror as I looked up. The shirt drenched her in that laidback sort of professionalism that becomes apparent when a suit and tie go untucked; the pants were rolled several times around her trim waist to even stay on, and they pooled around her small feet like an evening shadow.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," I said back.


	3. Chapter 3

Julie sat curled quietly on the couch for the better part of the evening, a study of a contemplative recluse. I knew the look in her face warned not to prod, but the silence was crushing the room like it was a piece of paper to be crinkled. With House, I'd grown used to conversation, even if it was rambling, nonsensical jargon.

I realized I missed the noise.

I offered her a drink, but she shrugged it off, saying she felt a bit nauseous. I brought back a warm towel for her head, but within minutes it was cooling to a puddle on the coffee table. She sighed, wrapping her arms around her legs as she drew her knees to her chin.

She looked like a crumpled ballerina.

"How did you know where to find me?" I asked eventually. My self-conscious fingers yearned for something to distract them, so I poured two small glasses of whiskey, though I knew only one of us would be touching it. She drank sparingly, if at all. Holidays, mostly; and then, only grape wine. We'd had that at the wedding, and near the end of the night, she'd accidentally spilled some on herself. The hem of the gown was speckled in purple, as if it were sprouting mauve forget-me-nots. We'd tried to get it dry-cleaned and remove the stain, but to no success.

She later told me it was an adornment, not a stain; it was a brilliant splash of color to the ordinary.

When had our marriage reverted back to being ordinary?

Her voice trailed off quietly, taking avenues of weariness to get there. "I figured you'd be at Greg's."

She never called him House. I guess she figured "House" would have been a term of respect. Greg was much more sharp and personal. "House" was disliking a reputation. "Greg" was having a reason to.

Through all our years together, that reason still escaped me. Well, he'd been his typical, caustic self on a few occasions, but I'd warned Julie beforehand. It amazed me how she could deal with her friends' husbands' chauvinism or dull-wittedness, but she absolutely despised House's wry humor.

There you go. Women. They hate men who are smart enough to annoy them.

"How long have you been living here?"

"Since the divorce," I replied, and was amazed at how easily the reference slid out of my mouth, bereft of sarcasm or hurt or anger. Divorce. It was another word of the English language, a simple two syllables, a negligible noun in so many respects.

I swallowed down the whiskey and poured myself another.

Julie watched me from overtop of her knees. "How much longer do you plan on being here?"

"I… I don't really plan on anything, actually."

She tilted her head back skeptically, probably remembering every overly-attentive list I'd made regarding _this_ thing that had to be done, or _that _phone call that had to be made, or _this _specific item on _that_ particular list.

"You don't have any idea?"

"Well, I've looked, but…" I shrugged. "House isn't kicking me out, so."

"He wants you here?"

I shrugged again and waited for the conversation to morph into something else. Maybe it could sprout wings and fly off in another whole direction. I idly studied the mellow green walls, thinking how incredibly bizarre it was to have her sitting right across from me, the unsaid betrayal between us like an old friend who kept getting in the way.

"Did you love him?" I broke in suddenly.

She stared at me with that cool composure that always left me grasping for a conversational foothold. It's easy to trap someone in a corner when they're already running around in circles, defensive. Julie never got defensive. She just said what was on her mind, what she felt, and that was it. She forced the impetus to act back at the provoker, and made the other commit the error.

She was a lot like House in that way, I realized.

"I loved how I felt," she replied shortly.

"And how did you feel?"

She gazed at me for a long time, as if she hadn't heard me. She lowered her legs and wrapped her arms securely around her middle, never breaking my gaze.

"I felt free."

"Mm. That's good." I took another sip of the whiskey and thought it strange I couldn't taste it anymore. "That's the idea of marriages, you know. That freedom."

"James. Don't be like this."

"I can't help it," I murmured. And I couldn't. It was selfish, I know. She'd come to me in time of desperation, and I'd opened the door for her; but I couldn't close the window on what she'd done, either. Her bruises may have been evident, but mine were just as painful below the surface.

"You can't tell me you weren't seeing other people, too," she retorted quietly.

"I was not."

She raised an eyebrow, just barely. "I find that hard to believe."

"Well, you never trusted me. Why should that change now?"

Julie looked away, wincing, and at first I thought it had been something I said, but she rose and went to the bathroom soon after. As I placed my empty whiskey glass in the sink and poured her untouched glass down the drain, I listened but heard no crying, only the sound of a brief cough, some water, and the toilet flushing.

She'd taken the salve from where I'd set it on the sink and was twisting around, trying to figure out how to bend her arms to reach the marks on her back. I watched from the kitchen for a while until I felt frustrated enough to offer to do it for her. She glanced at me like I was another person who'd suddenly appeared in the house, then slowly nodded.

I warmed the salve between my hands, rubbing it in my palms before I applied it to her reddened back. Her spine rippled faintly below fields of ivory skin. The hazel-colored birthmark still adorned the curve of her shoulder; I noted it significantly, as if there'd been a chance it might have disappeared.

Julie twisted her head halfway to peer over her shoulder best she could. "How's it look?"

"Good."

Strands of blonde hair wisped across her eyes as she glanced up into my face. Her nose crinkled with one of those half-smiles she's so deft at making. "You're a horrible liar."

"I'm not lying," I protested, offering a smile. I was surprised it found its way to my face, that I hadn't left it stranded. Gently, I smoothed in the lotion, which caught the gleam of the dresser lamp and made it seem as if she were doused in shimmering light. A few goosebumps pricked up along her back, and I kept the next squirt of salve in my hand longer, making sure that this time it was warm enough.

She shivered a bit anyway.

I took the couch and convinced her to take the bed. She asked if Greg had taught me to play anything on the piano, but I replied that he was far too advanced for me. She tossed back a look as if to say she doubted both our capabilities, then replaced the skepticism with a small, grateful smile as she crawled into bed.

She slept with the light on, something I couldn't ever remember her doing.

-----------------------------------------

House. House, are you up?

_I'm omnipotent, remember? I don't have to sleep. And I guess you don't, either_.

Julie's been up and down all night. Walking around the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen.

_She's in an unfamiliar house. She's scared._ _What, were you expecting her to curl up at your feet like a puppy and be fine immediately?_

I don't know what I was expecting. I don't know what to do for her.

_That's what Dr. Phil is for, not Dr. House. Pull yourself together, James. You're embarrassing me._

I think I'm going to go talk to her. Women like that.

_You're the expert._

Thanks… I think. But usually the women I deal with weren't previously married to me.

_You mean usually the women you deal with can't see through your bullshit_.

It is not b.s.

_Does 'DHA' ring a bell?_

I mean it. I'm concerned. I used to love her, remember?

_And what she feels for you… Is that past tense yet, too?_

I'll talk to you later, House.

----------------------------------------------------

I sat at the end of the bed, while she stayed seated upright, House's pillow cushioning her back against the headboard. She stared emptily out into the dim light between us. I waited for her to say something, and I waited for something intelligent to float to my lips if she didn't talk first.

We waited for each other, something we hadn't done in years.

"How many women have you loved, James?" she asked abruptly.

I must have looked startled, because she relaxed, knowing she did not have to be the nervous one. That was my responsibility now.

"I don't mean how many women have you slept with. I mean how many have you cared about? That you didn't necessarily sleep with?"

"Romantically cared about?" I asked.

She waited, which I assumed constituted as a nod.

A few faces fluttered through my head, though most names evaded me. A few laughs, a couple touches, a fair share of attraction. What did she expect me to say? That she'd been the only one?

That wasn't a reasonable demand, and she knew it. Because I knew it wasn't a reasonable demand to make of her, either.

"In second grade, there was this girl with pigtails…" I started slowly.

She laughed softly, and I felt like someone who had finally managed to coax a sound out of a neglected, rusted instrument. It was if I'd resuscitated life into someone long cold.

Still, there was a tenseness to her body that indicated she was still waiting for a real answer. I shifted back so I could rest up against the headboard as well, on my usual side of House's bed, while she stayed an arm's length away on the other.

"I don't know," finally admitted. "I don't write these things down; I don't keep track. Sometimes it's a fleeting thing. Sometimes it stays with me."

"What was I?"

I stared down where the mattress cover was separating slightly from the actual mattress, exposing the off-white pattern beneath the stark blue sheets.

"Something in between."

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her nod slightly. Her fingers brushed along her abdomen absentmindedly, and she tilted her head back, letting her blonde locks fall like a river's cascade over the angular, rocky landscape of her shoulders.

"James."

"Hmm?"

"I… I haven't been honest with you."

I chuckled shortly. Sometimes, I think House's defensive sarcasm wears off on me. She kept staring off, talking aloud to herself more than me.

"He… he never hit me before."

"I figured when I saw the bruises," I conceded. "They're new."

She shook her head. "You don't understand. It was my fault. He had to hit me this time."

I leaned forward, angered at the thought. "Jules. Look at me. No one deserves to be hit. You didn't do anything to deserve this."

"No." She kept shaking her head, which struck me as maddening. Her eyes were swollen, glazed but somehow refrained from crying again. Crying was something she did at birthday parties and family get-togethers, or when I came home with long-stemmed roses just for the hell of it. Crying was something she desperately tried to avoid, associating it with weakness.

She was not weak. She was… She was beautiful. With or without me, she was.

"But I did deserve it," she whispered, almost inaudibly. "You don't know, James. You don't understand."

"Tell me," I urged. I took her hand and pressed it comfortingly between mine. "Make me understand. I want to help you."

She was seeing something pure and bright in her mind's eye, something concealed from my vantage point.

I waited. She waited. We miraculously waited for each other.

She lifted my hand to her lips and kissed my knuckles, like how the sun casts itself in ribbons of light upon each ripple of city skyscrapers as I drive into work each morning. I froze.

"I want to tell you and I don't."

I stared expectantly at her, unmoving.

"Then tell me." My voice strained with insistence.

She let my hand go, like releasing a bird from her palm, and then softly wished me goodnight only.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks for the reviews, everyone! Please let me know what you think...

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"You slept with her?"

It was four o'clock the next morning. I'd called to provide House with moral support for those despised conferences, not to play Twenty Questions. I should have known better.

"I slept _next_ to her," I interrupted, wondering just how far House's incredulous voice carried in the Ramada's hotel lobby. I mentally checked off all those befuddled, curious heads shooting up at his exclamation. The agitated greeter behind the desk. Some teenagers. Grandparents who are now convinced all younger generations are thoughtless animals. And Cameron, for certain.

"James, _what_ are you doing?"

Either House had just decided to try his best soprano or someone else had definitely grabbed the phone.

"Cameron," I said tiredly, "this doesn't even concern you."

"I have to deal with House for another four weeks, and he has to deal with you. I'm indirectly affected."

That, I realized, was her problem. Of _course_ she's indirectly affected. _I'm_ indirectly affected by lots of things; the manufacturer of my car, House's leg pain, my patients' families—the point is, you can't get caught up in other people's problems, or you're doing the worrying for them.

I leaned back against the couch, realizing how sad it was that I'd started rationalizing to this extent. I missed House's bluntness. As insane as it was, it seemed to simplify everything.

Cameron pressed on, uninhibited, embarking on a litany of "how could you when House isn't even there," and I was tempted to ask if she'd tried anything while _I_ wasn't there, when House snatched back the phone.

"Wilson."

I perked. Last name. Serious.

"Medical question for you."

"Shoot."

He paused for dramatic effect. "How badly contagious... is a conference of dim-witted, suck-up physicians?"

I grinned, then replied in mock panic, "Oh, no. You've been exposed?"

"Unfortunately. We're headed for a two-hour lecture on ethics right now."

"Exposure at that high of a level could prove fatal."

"Yep. And I have a feeling we don't have long. The first half will be a lesson in treating patients as humanely as possible, no matter how stupid they are. The second is learning how to care enough. Cameron, I believe, will be the guest speaker." I could just hear her start protesting in the background.

"Well, obviously, since your speeches have been less than satisfactory."

At that moment, Julie peeked her head out of the bedroom. She'd apparently caught the words "exposed" and "fatal," and seemed a bit thrown by the smile I was wearing.

"I…gotta go," I said into the phone, turning around halfway.

"You're not married to her anymore," House cut in. "Don't _I_ get a say in who you talk to?"

"I'm not married to you, either," I replied blithely. As I hung up, it hit me what a stupid thing it was to say that with Julie standing right in front of me.

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"Who was that?"

"No one," I said quickly, too quickly. Shit. I could've told her it was House and then laughed, and she would've thought it was a joke between old buddies. Now that I denied it, it sounded serious.

Why can't I think of these things beforehand?

"What, there was no one at the other end of the line?" Julie pressed.

"Yeah, I was talking to the dial tone."

Julie watched me fumble for my briefcase and car keys, critiquing me with that guilt-inflicting silence. Being married is like learning to ride a bike you keep falling off of. You know how to do it to the extent that it's fun for a while, even enjoyable, but you can never stay upright on it long enough. Eventually you crash. Still, you know how to ride a bike, and you blindly get back on.

Married or not, it was apparent we were both getting on the bike again. She was in her self-righteous role, her nosey mode, and I was in my "I'm-going-to-be-late-can-we-talk-about-this-later?" role.

"You're seeing someone already?"

"Didn't want to be left out," I quipped, a bit too harshly. I glanced up at her as something painful flashed across her face. "Oh, Jules… I didn't mean that."

She slipped seamlessly into "why-would-you-say-something-so-hurtful" mode as she crossed her arms across her chest, shaking her head pitifully at me.

"Well you might want to tell her I'm moving out of here as soon as possible." She wasn't too upset tofire a glare. "I don't want to indirectly ruin another one of your relationships."

_Indirectly_, I thought to myself as she retreated to the bedroom, slamming a door that was not hers to slam. _That makes things so much more difficult_.

I was going to ask if she was leaving for work at some point, but I figured it best to let her irritation fizzle out first. I glanced through the crack in the door for a second before I left.

She was curled up on the bed. I would have thought her asleep had her eyes not been open, staring unseeingly at the piano. The room practically wilted with her depression. I thought back briefly to the woman I'd intermittently held last night.

Hair like pools of gold overflowing to my shoulder; long, exponentially long eyelashes—when she cried, they were ink-black, like someone had scrawled them in for detail. She'd been small, humble, unassuming within my embrace, something House never was or could be. Neither was better nor worse. They just…were different.

She'd leaned close and kissed me, an event which I'd clung to sporadically and then let fly loose, like wind snatching fallen leaves from the ground in late October. But her lips, saccharine lips, had been cinnamon-red and just as sharp. The taste fused to my mouth.

Then sleep seized us both, and nothing more.

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We'd been married for five years, I kept repeating to myself. It rang discordantly in my head, something of a personal record for me. Five years. We'd been married, married. This kiss was hardly new—overused and mundane, if I'm to be honest. It was perfectly normal; a natural response; a way of showing concern and offering reassurance in a time of need.

And she was the one who kissed me, anyway. She wanted me to kiss her back, so I did. Briefly.

And nothing more.

Still, I didn't tell House. I was fairly sure slumber and anxiety had persuaded Julie to show affection; obviously, she didn't feel the same this morning. She was more likely to inflict bodily injury on me than anything else. Her stare drained incalculable depths into my face as she caught me watching her.

"You're going to be late," she said for me, stiffly.

"Are you…going to work?"

Her hands were folded and tucked beneath her head. I wondered if she could smell House's cologne on his pillow. It would've smelled of heavy aftershave, too, had he ever taken up shaving again, which was looking highly doubtful. I half-wondered if the brushburns still showed on my neck, and if she'd notice; and if she had, if she'd question.

If, if, if...

She was still in my shirt and sweatpants. "Yeah. Later. I took off half a day."

Uncertainty made me hesitate. "You have my cell number, right?"

"I don't need a babysitter."

"Right. Just a place to stay."

"And I'll be leaving soon. Maybe Rhonda has a spot at her house…"

I tapped the side of the door aimlessly, looking down at my feet. I don't know why I do that. Maybe I hope the syllables are down there to find. "You know…"

Nope, they weren't. They never are. It's just as hard to talk no matter where you look. I glanced back up at her.

"I'm not making you leave," I said slowly. "You can stay, if you need to."

She didn't answer for a bit, so I figured the conversation was over.

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I stepped outside just in time to notice that the tires of my car had been slashed.


	5. Chapter 5

I called a tow. As the bright yellow vehicle hooked up my car and carried it off like a piece of dirt that needed whisking away, I considered calling a taxi to get into work. Scratched that. I had a feeling staying home would be a better idea, considering my suspicion as to who had slashed the tires to begin with.

He was, I anticipated, a rather agitated, aggressive boyfriend who had either tracked down Julie, had a source somewhere, or heard her mention House's apartment in conversation.

A part of me was annoyed that she might've been sharing details of me like I was a hand of cards she could exploit, while she kept him hidden under the table from me.

And the river turns…

She'd gotten up since the tow had come and gone. Sitting still and silent at the kitchen table, she nursed half a glass of water.

"So how does he know you're here?" I asked, voice tight.

She shrugged.

"Did he _follow_ you?"

"I would've noticed."

"Well, obviously, he knows where you are. _And _he knows what car is mine, so he must be staking out the house."

"How do you know it was him?"

"Because I haven't heard of anyone who's ever gotten their tires slashed in this area. Even _House_ didn't have to worry about vandalism, and if I'd been a kid I would've egged his apartment every chance I got."

"Things happen," she said blandly.

I watched her incredulously as she took a thin sip of water. "Tastes funny."

"Julie. Your boyfriend just ripped apart my tires and I'm guessing he'd like to do some more damage if gets the chance. This is serious."

"He's not my boyfriend." She tossed me a look as if it took more effort than she was willing to spare, then returned back to her water. "And he'll go away."

"Oh, yeah, I believe that." I shook my head, moving for the phone. "I'm calling the police."

"No—don't!" She snatched at my shirt. "He might do something."

"He's already done something," I snapped. "What's the difference? He's still lurking around out there. If I at least call the cops he'll have someone chasing after him, too."

"James, _please_. You don't know—"

"Of course I don't know, because you never told me until it got to this point!" I stared at her hard, vaguely realizing she still clung to my shirt. The slender razor phone in my hand felt like weighed tons. I bowed my head, preoccupying myself with the glowing blue buttons on the cell, and said more softly, "I'm going to need a description of this guy."

Slowly, she gathered herself up and stood in front of me. She was a good five inches shorter, but it suddenly seemed as if she were looking down on me, and I was the one curled on the floor, waiting for instruction.

"Well," she said, her tone tightrope-thin, "you won't be getting that description from me."

The rest of the day was horrible. I'd stayed home to protect her in case he got overconfident and tried to break in, but nothing eventful happened. She and I managed to avoid each other by occupying whichever room was empty. She watched some home cooking show on TV while I messed around on the piano; then I wandered in to watch General Hospital so I could update House as to what had happened (his request, not my offer) while she caught a nap in the bedroom.

We were little figurines acting out our own selfish roles, stomping on the other's script with no guilt to stop us.

By evening, I'd realized I wasted the entire day, and possibly several more years if I counted this particular failed marriage that got us to this pathetic point.

Habits are hard to break. I called House.

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He seemed dutifully impressed at my misfortune when I relayed my car story. "This doesn't mean you can borrow the 'Vette, you know. Don't want Boyfriend to start taking out his anger on your friends, too."

I'd pulled out a box of instant mashed potatoes from the closet and found a can of cream corn from under the sink. I checked the expiration date and grimaced.

"Haven't you cleaned this stuff out in, I don't know, _three years_, House?"

"I'm not responsible for the toilet."

"I mean the kitchen cabinet," I retorted, smiling despite myself. "This is disgusting. The corn probably crystallized."

"There's steak in the freezer," House offered.

I frowned. It was already six o'clock. "I'll have to unfreeze it."

"Yes, that's typically how it works. What do you care? So it's a late meal."

Sighing, I settled for canned green beans and dug out the frosty meat. "Maybe I should just make something easier. Quick. Then I can go to sleep and get this day over with."

"Rough one, huh? That's all right. Your car was ugly anyway."

"It's just the tires, House."

"For starters. Windows go next. Then bumpers, finally the body… At least you'll have an excuse to get a more attractive car."

"Great, no steak knife either," I muttered, reaching for a smaller and much duller cutting utensil instead. "House. Your kitchen is a disaster."

"Well, don't be mopey. You're not the only one who had a bad day."

I laughed. Scoffed, really. "House. I hardly think your day could compare with mine."

"Still haven't discovered the secrets of marital bliss? Hmm, always thought three times was the charm."

"Keep going, House. I'll hang up and leave you with Cameron."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"You know it is."

He paused for a moment, and I waited to hear the clinking of Vicodin falling from the container into his palm, but there was nothing. Odd.

I examined the stove in consternation, the steak like an ancient rock that had crashed in a landslide onto the counter. "Maybe if I broil it…"

"Marits Corenlius Escher."

I closed my eyes, bracing myself for whatever tangent he was going to dash off onto this time. "Come again?"

"Answer this question: Can a person be so skilled at something that he's horrifically _bad_ at it?"

"Please tell me this isn't an attempt to justify your love for humanity."

"Take Marits Corenlius Escher. First name, better known as M.C. Art guy. Wrote a bunch of books on 'impossible space' and is now regarded as a breakthrough mathematician."

"And…?"

"He flunked out of math in his schooling. Several times. Couldn't do it to save his life."

"So…what? He viewed it differently, maybe."

"Maybe?"

"School was too formulaic for him," I theorized, hands in my pockets as I rocked back on my heels. "He needed to interpret things his own way to understand them."

"Bing! Congratulations, Wilson, you win a prize. What's behind door number one?"

"An end to this conversation?"

"_You_," House barged along, "know the exact balance between sincerity, manipulation, and concern. And yet, applying that skill within a standard environment, you can't use it to save your life."

"Yes. I'm the perfect husband, which is why I can't stay married." I stared blankly in flustered amazement. What was strangest about these theories was that most actually fit the bill. I glanced toward the bedroom, where Julie had strayed off to again. She'd never bothered going into work.

"Genius, if I say so myself. And behind door number two… Our man MC is most famous for all his optical illusion junk."

I sighed, but contributed, "Yeah. You have that one piece framed in your office, right? The contorted staircase that goes up and down at the same time?"

"_Ascending and Descending_," House informed. I could just picture him tapping the cane spuriously against the ground in rapid succession, then abruptly stopping. "How can that happen? Two opposite directions at once." House implored keenly, "How far is a person willing to _de_scend to _a_scend?"

"You mean, how low is a person willing to stoop to get ahead?"

"Exactly. Now, I have a very close friend."

"I wonder who this could be."

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm talking about my Vicodin."

"Oh, sorry, my mistake."

"Now, this close friend seems to have been confiscated by someone who thinks she's doing me a favor."

"Cameron snatched your pills? What for?"

"You're ruining the flow of my hypothesis. Now. She knows that I need the Vicodin, that without it I will be in pain and may even be _unhappy_, and that she must tolerate my company anyway. Why would she take something that's obviously going to create more problems?"

"Simple: _She _didn't take it. _You _lost it."

"Let's not point fingers. As the great Sherlock Holmes once said, 'Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.'"

"You deduced that Cameron must have been the one to steal your Vicodin?"

"No. But I know I didn't lose it. _Somebody's _got to point the fingers."

"What about all the other doctors there? I'm sure you annoyed at least some of them enough to—"

"Why would they bother? They don't even know me. In another few weeks I'll be out of their lives permanently. But, if they antagonize me first, I'll have a reason to retaliate." He paused, as if admiring his caustic reputation. "I think they're wary enough not to test me."

"House." Dinner was looking more and more unlikely. "I have no idea what you're getting at."

"I didn't misplace the steak knife. Check in the dishwasher."

"What?" My brain looped, trying to catch the latest swerve in conversation. "Why would it be there? I haven't even used it."

"Julie has."

"For _what_?"

"For your car tires."

The silence hung like a canopy between us. House sighed, disappointed that he neither got to see nor hear my reaction.

"After you find it, send up a prescription of Vicodin. Express delivery. Better make it three bottles. These conferences are unbearable."


	6. Chapter 6

I really appreciate all the reviews, everyone! Fair warning: this chapter is definitely slashier.

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I'd met Julie at a party. My girlfriend's birthday party, actually, so that always makes for an interestingly awkward story. They'd been roommates in college, and still kept in touch years after.

I saw her, as all good clichés go, dancing in the middle of the room with a wine glass in her hand. Grape wine. She smiled vibrantly at everyone but there was an emptiness to it.

_And we're back to neediness._

House… Not right now.

Aren't you going to confront her about your car? 

Yes.

_It's been three hours_. _What are you waiting for?_

I need to think. I don't want to sound accusatory. I'm sure she had a good reason…

_A good reason for slashing your tires?_ _Ooh, Jimmy, this just gets better and better_.

Look, she's upset. She just—probably didn't want to be left alone.

_And she couldn't say, 'Hey, James, maybe you should stay home and keep me company'?_

I don't know.

_You lived with the woman for five years and you don't know if she's capable of deception_?

Everyone's capable of deception.

_Ah-hah. So you're learning. That's good_.

It's just people usually have a good reason for deception.

_Thoughts to ponder. So. Tell me more about Miss Julie. I think it's my turn to ask the "what was she like before?" question._

Julie… Julie was much the same, as far as I can tell. She's one of the few people I know who stare circumstances in the face and not bend to them. In the past five years, she's gotten married, her parents died, she's gotten promoted, we've divorced.

_And she's still Julie_.

There's a certain integrity to unwavering natures.

_Some people call that stubbornness._

But it doesn't mean it's not admirable to a certain extent, either.

_You must worship me then._

The very ground you walk on.

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The phone rang. After brief consideration, I answered, prepared to promptly hang up on the delusional phone salesman who thought trying to sell me life insurance at nine-thirty at night was a good idea.

"Dr. Wilson?"

"Foreman," I said, surprised. I glanced at the clock again, as if I might've been wrong. Nope. "Hey. What's going on?"

"I, uh…" He paused, as if feeling out the air to the conversation. "I just wanted to know if you've seen Julie Holloway lately."

I had to remind myself again who was talking to me. It seemed like such a strange thing to hear coming from Foreman. I hadn't expected him to know of her, given that I only ever really mentioned my personal life with House. "Yeah. Actually she's here at House's." The silence that followed stretched awkwardness to another level, and I hoped I wouldn't have to explain this one.

"Oh. Okay. Because we tried getting a hold of her today, but she wasn't answering her home phone number."

"Why would the hospital be calling her?"

"Because she had an appointment today," Foreman said, as if wondering why I hadn't known previously.

"For what?"

"Her ultrasound. She's been coming every other Sunday. She'd had to reschedule this one for Tuesday, and the doctors were surprised she'd missed this one without calling."

"Her…her what?"

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_So tell me. When you met Julie, all she needed was a dancing partner?_

At first glance, yeah.

_And you helped her out._ _Your girlfriend at the current time didn't mind?_

Julie was her friend. And Rachel had other guy friends to dance with too. We were just having a good time.

_Rachel. You still remember her name? Are you secretly still pining over her?_

I don't pine, House.

_Of course not. Not over people who aren't whittling away with desperation, am I right_?

I'' send your Vicodin tomorrow, by the way. I hope that'll improve your mood by the next time I talk to you.

_And as you danced with Julie, she collapsed into a tearful confession of how unfortunate her life has been, and her sadness swept you off your feet._

If that's what you want to think, then think it.

_Imagine if Galileo had said that to the priests about their whole geocentric theory_._ Pff! We'd still be going around as self-righteous Earthlings who think our planet is the center of the universe._

Right. So thanks to Galileo we just go around as self-righteous Earthlings knowing that our planet revolves around the sun. Big difference.

_Maybe I should go back to weaning you off of needing neediness. That was working fairly well before, wasn't it?_

House. Come on.

_I hear that smile in your voice_. _Remember? Last Thursday, I believe it was._

Um… Yes. House, we don't really need to revisit this…

_It's exposure therapy: an experiment in you not needing to provide for someone else. Tell me what happened again._

House.

_It's good for you. Besides, I want to hear your version._

You… You waited up for me to come home. You'd skipped out on clinic duty. I know because Cuddy was threatening to leave phone messages until you disconnected the phone or came in feeling guilty to make up the time.

_I believe the former is more likely. Stay on topic, Jimmy._

Fine. So I… I came home, and you were waiting. Usually you're playing your GameBoy or reading or catching a game, but not this time. You didn't say anything. You pulled me into your room quickly, wordlessly discarding my clothes like pretenses, not stopping to coax and compliment and admire like you've made a habit of doing. You grumbled something about my tie, how particularly ugly this one was, and then promptly slung it around my wrists and fixed it to the bedpost, tightly securing my arms above my head.

_It was the worst shade of yellow I'd ever seen._

It was _blue_.

_Blue makes for a miserable yellow, doesn't it?_ _Perfect for restraint, though_.

I struggled for effect until you growled in my ear to stay still if I even wanted to entertain the thought of you touching me. I stopped writhing.

_Kind of_.

Some of it I couldn't suppress. I gazed up at you. I felt… I felt helpless, entirely helpless, beneath your long, narrow build and the resolved steadiness in your face. You remained fully clothed, a dominant contrast to my exposed body beneath yours. Sweet, painful vulnerability clouded everything but the throbbing rush shooting through my chest, rippling through my limbs, whirlpooling with every glance and touch you gifted to me.

Jimmy… 

You ran a critical eye down my frame. I was your white board; please, make a diagnosis, anything. You could just look at me and I'd ache.

_I know._

I tensed, desperately pushing my body upwards to meet the hand you ran across my chest. Slowly, you traced the beguiling cut of shallow muscle that ran diagonally along my waist, fingers skimming my hipbone like you were making a casual turn on a well-traveled road. They took a deliberate detour toward my thighs, brushing, massaging—

_I still hear you; I still see you_.

I moaned protests about how unfair your teasing was. You whispered back things that made me groan even louder, twisting and contorting under the sweet torture of your touch everywhere but where I wanted it.

_You wanted to touch me back._

But you wouldn't let me. I felt so objectified. God, it—it was incredible. The rest of my body screamed jealously for attention.

_I wanted to see what you'd do if I did this. Action and reaction._

You ducked your head and nibbled at my neck, tasting my pulse as it beat frenetically against your tongue. Your scruff would leave brush burns for me to wear the next day; for me to trace over with a finger, revisiting the memory.

_I was in love with you._

You still are.

_Is that a question? _

No. I know it doesn't have to be.

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I let the steak sit in its frozen glory on the counter. The green beans were open but uncooked. I'd eaten some cold, leftover pizza from who-knows-when and wandered into the bedroom, where Julie had kept herself in isolation for evening.

Leaning against the doorway frame, I waited for her to acknowledge me.

I stopped waiting when I realized she wasn't going to.

"Jules."

"What?" She lifted her head from House's pillow, then uncurled her limbs and sat up. She blinked at me, her verdant eyes tumultuously bright in the dim room.

"I want you to be honest with me."

She stared like she was incredibly interested in the blank space between us. I watched as her slender fingers entwined together, like roots tangling clandestinely beneath the ground.

I closed my eyes for a second. Easy questions first. "Why… Why did you do that to my car?"

Her head shot up quickly, which was enough to confirm that House had been right. Another point for the master manipulator.

"I told you. You wouldn't understand."

"You're not giving me the chance to," I said. I let an encumbered a silence follow, waiting for her to admit what I wanted to hear from her lips—a confession, not a frantic response to my accusation.

She kept staring, her bluntness statuesque. I swallowed the taste of pain coating the back of my throat.

"Is it because you didn't want me to know about your appointment?" I asked quietly.

"My—my what?"

"Sunday ere convenient. I don't work on Sundays; there was never a chance I might run into you. But Tuesday—Tuesday might be a problem. So you stopped me from going to work, but couldn't get out of the house without me noticing. Julie." I shook my head, wetting my lips. "Why couldn't you just _tell me_?"

Her breath hitched, and I inadvertently tensed, expecting her to yell. Instead, she wrapped a protective hand around her belly again and returned a steadfast stare.

"Because you can't handle anything long-term. I don't need you involved in this."

I suddenly wished she had yelled. Screamed, even. Threw something at me. Anything.

"I can't—can't _handle_—?"

The shock was coming in waves. Julie. Pregnant.

Slowly it occurred to me that I knew nothing about kids. When they happened to be patients, sure—that was different. It's always easier to deal with children who will be sent home in a day or week or so. There's an objective goal behind spending time with them: Make a diagnosis, give a treatment, see to it they get better. Then off they go, like a passing blip on the radar, no longer a cause for worry. They're much more upfront than adult patients, too, which makes consultations go much more smoothly. They're not trying to hide any details that might indirectly sway a diagnosis; they are candid about everything.

Yes. I know a lot about kid patients. But kids who are my own, I know nothing.

I stared at Julie and felt like two people stared back. It was awkward, like when a friend introduces you to one of their own friends, who they've known for years and who you've never even heard of. It's unnerving, at best.

Okay. Why? The first two years of our marriage we'd tried for children, until it became obvious that the forces that be decided we wouldn't make ideal parents. I offered to do the invitro but she declined. It just wasn't the same; besides, our respective careers were both becoming the most prevalent part of our lives.

Five years later—why now? This kid had impeccable timing. And now she thought I was incapable of being a part of it?

A part of it? A part of what? I'm not even part of her life anymore.

She swung her legs off the bed and moved to leave. I caught her hand and silently pleaded with her to stay, even if only for an explanation.

"How far along are you?"

She hesitated. "Three months."

I looked at her again, this time with the dedication usually reserved for artwork. So maybe that's what had been different. Maybe I'd subconsciously noticed. She still was petite; she'd never been pregnant before, either, I reasoned, which was probably why she wasn't showing it as obviously as other women might. Still, there was a slight swell to her stomach, mostly concealed under the bagginess of my shirt she still wore.

"Three months," I repeated quietly. A thought stung in my mind. The words just barely formed on my tongue. "It's…it's mine, right?"

A lock of blonde hair floated into her eyes as her head turned. "I don't know."

The bed beneath me suddenly seemed to crumble like sand recanted by tides. I waited for the words to echo back in the hollow cavern of my head.

_I don't know_.

"Did you—you didn't get a paternity test then?"

She shook her head. I was amazed at how capable she was of eye contact. "I don't want one."

"Well—well maybe _I _want one."

"I'm going to be leaving at the end of this week. I called Rhonda, and she said—"

"I don't care about Rhonda," I interrupted, my voice cracking. "I care about you, and this kid."

"I'm sure you do. Which is why you're still at House's, right?"

Again, I stopped. The conversation was as riddled as the pothole-laden streets coerced by Jersey traffic. There was something strange to her tone.

"What?"

"I know, James," she said simply, her voice coiled and tight. But somehow, it remained vacant of anger, repulsion, anything that I feared her reaction might include. It was absurdly systemic. "I've known for awhile."

The room suddenly seemed incredibly ill-shapen, uneven, bulging out at the sides. I heard her, but there was no way she could've said what I thought she said. I watched her mouth move as if lip-reading was more reliable than my ears.

She must have sensed me fumbling over my thoughts. My lame response consisted of limping, flailing syllables sprawling uselessly between us. She let me ramble for a few seconds before shaking her head, closing the levees of my confusion.

"Your shirts hang on one side of his bedpost. You hover around the piano like a ghost. And…and you talk in your sleep."

Condemning evidence if I've ever heard any. My face flushed, wondering with a bit of humiliation what uncensored words had streamed out of my mouth in slumber.

She either looked resignedly happy or depressingly morose, I couldn't tell which.

And then she was kissing me, and the word "stop" fled like a desperate, panicked fugitive from my vocabulary.


	7. Chapter 7

_Were you thinking of me then? _

I… I wasn't thinking of anything.

----------------------------------------------------

The second my fingers brushed along her back every nerve in my body stalled. Hesitation surged like disease through the corridors of my mind. I felt the bruises and scars conjoining to my hands, spreading up to me, rattling through resoundingly.

She gazed at me imploringly, but I was already up on my feet and walking to the door, the outskirts of my vision blurring.

"James—James, what?"

I swallowed, blinking hard, and turned back to look at her again, then nearly regretted it. I didn't see the woman who'd slashed my tires, or who'd come running from abuse, or who'd snuck back in my life as if I were a piece of driftwood to be clung to and exploited.

I just saw her. Julie. Unscathed and waiting patiently, expectantly, like it was a fault belonging to me, and I had a chance to unravel and correct it.

---------------------------------------------------

_Were you thinking of me then? _

I started to, I think. No. Maybe not. This is what I thought:

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The wedding had been simple. It was a bit hard to go all-out when I'd done it twice before. She'd had a prior engagement that had fallen through as well, so we figured there was no sense in building up ceremony for ceremony's sake. There were maybe a dozen people in total who'd come for the two separate services—one, in her Roman Catholic Church, and the other, in my synagogue. The priest and rabbi wished us luck; we'd said the same vows at the two separate places, short and to the point.

At the closing, I'd glanced over at House, who I'd asked to be the best man and who'd declined, saying I was better off not causing problems and sticking to my older brother for that responsibility. "Besides," he'd whispered to me like it was some big secret, "Julie already doesn't like me, and she's only met me once." He even bet me ten bucks she'd slip the photographer cash to keep him out of the pictures if at all possible.

------------------------------------------------------

_No wonder she hated me. She knew you had a crush on me before you even did._

'Crush.' You make it sound like an elementary school fling on the playground. And I don't think I did back then, not yet.

_Are you sure? _

Yes. Of course. I think.

------------------------------------------------------

"James. Stay."

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_And what were you thinking then? _

Then. Then I was thinking of you.

-------------------------------------------------------

I watched her with a solemn steadiness that rarely found my face. She looked years younger and ages older at the same time.

"No." I marked it as a miracle that my voice worked. "No. This time… This time I get to be selfish."

The keys felt brittle like cold bones in my palm as I stepped out into the melting heat of the summer night. I slipped, vacant of thoughts, into House's Corvette and turned on the ignition. The car hummed, sparking to life as I pushed it into gear.

I didn't count how many laps I took around the neighborhood. Street signs dashed in random patterns around my less than observant eyes. I slid into third gear and stayed there, though I could've insisted on a fourth.

House never used all four gears.

_The shut-up button works nicely, though_.

I drove in circles until Kaplow's Pawn Shop flashed in the corner of my vision, and I inadvertently slowed down, self-consciously realizing I hadn't even known that I was driving here.

It seemed to be a slap in the face to the shadows of human lifecurled on the sidewalks that I was cruising through in a ridiculously expensive car, so I picked up speed and turned off the street. I wondered if it was still windy at all, because I couldn't tell; I couldn't hear anything anymore, but the blood rushing through my ears violently, like an unanticipated maelstrom.

I had no idea who had just left Julie, but I could hardly believe that it had been me.

---------------------------------------------------------

She was gone when I returned home, saving us both any more painful exchanges. Numb, with nothing much else to do, I wandered to the phone and checked the latest out-going phone number on the redial button. Didn't recognize it. Probably was Rhonda's.

I sat down on the sofa and let thoughts pour over my head like iodine staining a glass sleeve under a microscope. Dark, dark blue dye. Almost purple. Almost grape wine-colored. I thought of the whiskey in the kitchen and decided it took too much effort to get up and pour myself a consoling glass.

Three months. Six more to go.

Three weeks. Three weeks until House came home.

Three hours until midnight. Another six to daybreak.

I tried to remember what my own father had been like when was a child. Typical stuff. There were slap-on-the-back man-to-man times; there was shouting and disappointment; there was handing me the keys and trusting me not to do anything too stupid. There was baseball practice in the backyard, and trying to explain to my mother that the broken patio window proved that my pitching speed was picking up. Of course, I was never the star athlete in my family.

I thought of Kaplow's and rose to get the whiskey anyway.

Forget the glass. Right from the bottle. Hard, rough, coarse down my throat, like swallowing bristles coated in honey. And I missed that about House, too. That kind of blunt, unapologetic company, instinctive in public and private. There wasn't any figuring out to do between us both. Maybe it was because our anatomy was the same, or because we just knew each other so well.

Probably a combination, but it was nice to think it was primarily the latter.

I downed another gulp and let it float like wreckage down my throat.

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Jimmy. Jimmy. Wake up_.

I don't want to have a conversation now. Let me sleep.

_You've been sleeping. Time to get up_.

Come back later. I don't need a conscience now.

_Jimmy. James_. _I come all the way from New York and you'd rather stare at the back of your eyelids?_

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I opened said eyelids and blinked at the lanky figure leaning over me. He looked like he wanted to kiss me, and this time he did.

"So are you awake now?"

I muttered a gargled, sleep-drugged reply and pulled myself to an somewhat upright sitting position. Judging by House's reddened eyes, he'd either reacted more violently than expected to the suck-up physician exposure or he'd gone without Vicodin for quite some time.

He tapped his cane on my knee, hiding a grimace as the weight transferred to his bad leg.

"Is she asleep?"

I ran a hand through my hair, then shook the knotted strands free with a shrug. "She's not here."

He raised his eyebrows. "I make a frantic, late-night journey down to play hero and she's _not here_?"

"I… I kicked her out, I guess."

House watched me as if he expected me to laugh, admit the joke, then say, 'Yes, she's still asleep; in fact, I've proposed to her, and we've decided to try this marriage thing again anyway.'

The sofa cushion gave way slightly as he took a seat next to me. He reached out and I handed over the whiskey, of which he joined me in taking a swig.

Lost in quiet contemplation, he clicked his tongue languidly as he swallowed, then cleared his throat against the alcohol.

"You surprised me," House finally said.

Something that should have been a smile surfaced to my face. "What? You didn't trust me?"

"I trusted you to be yourself. That's why I came back."

"And for once I wasn't."

House examined my features carefully. A tingle ran up my arms, one that I overruled with a drink I stole from his bottle. He kept his hand beneath mine as I raised the whiskey to my lips.

"Did she reschedule her appointment?"

I didn't even want to know how he knew. In fact, it didn't even phase me that he did. I'd almost expected it, seeing that he was already in half the hospital's business anyway.

He must have been disappointed that my expression didn't even flinch. I thought of warning him that if he keeps bursting with surprises, the shock eventually wears off. I'll expect him to say something stunning every time he opens his mouth.

"Probably."

"Did she tell you about the paternity test?"

"Or lack thereof."

"No. She got one."

That deserved a raise of the eyebrows, despite myself. His fingers brushed along my palm as he abandoned the whiskey and gave it up to me.

"That's one of the perks of being a world famous doctor. Amazing the gossip nurses will be willing to divulge if you make a name for yourself." His eyes roamed my face, which was slowly collapsing into droll, blasé unconcern, smeared with alcohol. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Don't you want to know?"

I considered for a moment. "Doesn't matter, I guess. She doesn't care."

"The kid's going to. And I just thought you should have a fair warning that _you're_ going to be responsible for taking him to Mets games."

"Me?"

He nodded, just barely, then took the whiskey back, letting our hands brush longer than necessary.

"Me." I sighed, the breath emanating from some deep cavity of my chest I hadn't known existed. Somehow, the problem didn't appear any simpler.

"You might want to be there for the next ultrasound."

"She doesn't need me." I gave a short, rueful laugh that sounded more self-pitying than I'd wanted it to, thanks to the whiskey. "She doesn't even _care _if I'm there or not."

"Again. The kid might." He frowned at my indifference, then moved in front of me, standing sturdily and leaning into my personal space. "Close your eyes."

"I had them closed. You woke me up."

"I'm telling you to close them again."

I threw him an exasperated look, but complied.

"Don't move. Stay still; breathe. Think of the air around you."

"Am I channeling my subconscious?"

"Shh, Jimmy. The air. What color is it?"

"This is stupid, even from you, House."

"What color do you see?"

"A…"A random thought jolted to the forefront of my head. "An ugly shade of yellow."

House must've figured that deserved a kiss, because his lips were suddenly pressing to mine and lovedrugged anvils seemed to attach themselves to my eyelids, and I couldn't have opened them if I tried. He was so close I lost track of myself.

"On second thought…" I murmured against his mouth. "Blue, definitely blue. I get those shades mixed up."

"Great talent you have there, Jimmy." 

I shifted and made room for him to drape himself over me, his weight crushing and uplifting simultaneously.

"Can I open my eyes?" I asked, words half-stolen between kisses. 

"Not yet. Patience is a virtue."

"When you're not the one waiting."

He caught the bottom of my lip, teasingly sucking and tugging it back, before parting for air to return between us.

"Now. Open."

I did, the room a brilliant hues brighter; his face streamed with intensity and eyes shattering, just as deep as the ebony keys on the piano.

"Nobody's nice," he began quietly, "because it feels good. They're nice because they feel guilty and want to redeem themselves for something."

He didn't have to ask for what he wanted me to tell him. He wasn't like Julie. There was something else that floated between us, something that kept us needing the other without it decaying into selfishness or control.

I dredged the words up from wherever I'd repressed them. "He needed me."

"Who needed you?"

"He…" I picked a spot to stare at on his face—that little birthmark on the right side of his nose. "My brother."

"The one I don't know." It wasn't a question, so I didn't bother to confirm either way.

He massaged a brief tapestry of touches to my forehead, my temples, then let the touch slip to my sides before giving me some space again, as if the story might take up more room than could fit if we remained so close.

"Your brother needed you first," he prompted with more care than seemed possible for him to use. He just raised a brow and waited.

I opened my mouth and spoke before I knew how to say anything.


	8. Chapter 8

Thanks so much for the feedback, everyone. I changed a bit of the chapter and just reposted it. Let me know what you think!

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"He needed me and I left him."

The street lamps from outside tossed in slate blue light, punctuated sporadically by a crisp stream of white from insomniac cars. House, his back to the window, seemed drenched the color. I wavered.

"If you're going to repeat yourself and pause every two seconds this is going to take forever," House needled.

I ducked my head and nodded, my lips pursed. Find somewhere to start; find a thread that's not as frayed.

"I was the middle child," I tried. "My older brother, he's in the military."

"Navy. I remember. He managed to weasel a week's leave to be at your wedding."

"Yeah." I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. I suddenly felt like fatigue threw itself on my shoulders and was lounging there, waiting for the cave-in. I shook it off. "He left when…when Ian and I were still teenagers. I respected him, but it wasn't like he was ever really _there_. It was just me and Ian, for the most part." The remnants a smile flickered across my face, vaguely noticeable, but there all the same.

"Ian." House tried out the name like he was learning a foreign language. I glanced up at him, nodding with my eyes. It was a word I usually reserved, too, as if using it too often might wear it out, make it human, make it fade.

"He was two years younger than me. Great at sports. I never missed a baseball game—he threw two no-hitters, once when he was only a high school sophomore." I shook my head. "Hated school. He envied me, my grades, but I don't think he ever realized how much I admired him. Everyone liked him. Life was so easy for him."

"Too easy?"

House's company suddenly seemed oppressive, so I tested my unsteady knees and got up from the couch, walking in hazy circles around the room. Each step sent a jolt through my chest; it was like my blood was weaving frantically in out of arteries, absurdly thinking it had become a trapped rat in a maze, oblivious of a way out.

The cobalt light cascaded over my features as I stood framed in the window, wishing fervently it could dye my skin, that something could preserve me—that something could be permanent.

"He told me things he would've never told anyone else. Parties, drugs, whatever. Our parents never knew. No one would have ever thought…" I took a breath and let my eyes roam the dirt and traffic smog that clung to the window. I'd have to clean that eventually. Not now. Now, let it stay there. Let something else be marred. "I tried to help him. And I did for those last two years. He was getting better, but…"

I cut myself off momentarily, desperately pleading against reality that I could rewrite the next line. House, for an unnerving, telling moment, didn't throw out a snide comment. I almost wished he had. Instead, I unearthed my sentences as if they were skeletons reluctant to leave the ground.

"I had to leave for college. I promised I'd visit; I told him to keep in touch. He didn't want me to go."

"But you went."

I closed my eyes. The dimness from outside speckled my vision. "He needed me and I left him."

"You didn't leave him."

"I was at medical school and he was screwing up his life!" I snapped, eyes flashing open as I turned to face House. "Of course I left him. I was half the country away from him! I could've taken a year off, just to make sure he was stable—"

"If he wasn't stable in two years, what would one more year have done?"

I stared hard at him, silently begging for his condemnation, or at least affirmation of my selfish error. Nothing. He just sat there, red-framed eyes obscured by the shadowed space between us. A thin gloss had settled over his blue irises, the same gleam that arises as he consults a case. I felt like I was staring up from out of a test tube, waiting as he peered down.

I rubbed a hand across my face as I slowly meandered back to the couch. "He hated me. He thought I was shoving success in his face, that I didn't care about him anymore."

"Funny. You don't often see self-centered drug addicts."

There. There was the snark tone, giving me credence to react. My mind was operating on two distinct levels; one in my control, the other preserved in the amber of loss. I had shoved him back against the sofa before realizing I was doing it. I was more than surprised to find my hands pressing hard against his chest, my breathing erratic and unfamiliar, hot against his skin.

"Don't you _ever_ say that. _Ever_."

House calmly observed me like he would an anticipated newspaper headline. He let me lean my weight against him, channeling the hurt through this one burst of aggression. Thinking back, he could have just as easily deflected the hit. But he let me anyway.

"What, Jimmy?" House's tone had strangely mellowed. "It's true, isn't it? He didn't hate you. He hated himself. It's just easier to take the blame yourself than to force it on your little brother, one someone you love." He waited patiently as my hands relaxed into slight trembles against his shoulders. "Nine years ago, you said. You were…twenty-seven when Ian disappeared." He eyed me, forcing me to say it.

"My last year of med school." I bowed my head, hands still clutching House's shoulders. "He couldn't—he'd never gone to school—and I was graduating—and—"

"He couldn't stand to look his failure in the eye." House reached out and touched my face, raising it to meet his gaze. I turned away, embarrassed that I should have divulged such a significant piece of myself.

I'd given him plenty of things over the years, and the most in the past month—friendship, humor, tenuous belief that always seemed to find stability in the most doubtful of moments. Maybe we were the only people capable of getting through to each other. It was frightening and transcending at the same instant. I would look at him in moments and feel everything tunnel to a single point, a concise purpose; and then I'd drift back to a place beyond myself, and wonder what he could possibly see in me, if he really did need me, if our relationship was a chance born of desperate circumstance or something unavoidable.

Yet even physical closeness failed to compare with this immediate moment, whatever _this_ was—if it was confidence or confession or consensual trust. My eyes burned, dyed a deep copper, lost in avenues of regret.

He didn't force me to look at him for once. His voice was steady enough. "It wasn't your fault."

"If I'd never gone…"

"James. You can't blame yourself for other people's decisions. And helping every single other person is not going to change what happened."

"But I can stop it from happening again."

House shook his head. "You can't control everything."

I scoffed contritely, daring to look at him. "This coming from you?"

-------------------------------------------------------------

He didn't have a rebuttal for that one, so he just leaned in and kissed me, long and deep and slow, letting the warmth permeate and fill our mouths. I felt restraint finally snapping under the burden of guilt, and House guided me close, encouraging my arms to wrap around him while he massaged circles on my back, down my spine, hovering at my waist. I squirmed, murmuring his name, letting my fingers explore the rivulets of his hair.

House never knew what to say. He was far from sentimental; to choose a kiss over a quip was a considerable step in our relationship. He didn't exactly have a memory stock-full of Hallmark card phrases to pluck out and distribute at a moment's notice.

But it wasn't something I minded.

He pulled back momentarily to gaze at my flushed face, eyes already heavy lidded and closing.

"I want you," he said slowly, "to go see a Mets game with your kid."

We stared at each other for a long time before a small, stress-releasing laugh worked its way out from my mouth. "What if the Mets suck by the time he's old enough to go?"

"Teach him to be a true fan," House murmured back, placing another kiss on my lips before he was even done with the sentence. "No band-wagon-jumping. And buy him those crappy Cracker Jacks that stick in your teeth. Explain why TiVo just doesn't compare to actually being able to throw beer at the opposing team in person. Why Barry Bonds' helmet size increased exponentially. And why you should throw beer at Barry Bonds. And show him how to keep a scorecard."

"_I_ don't even know how to keep a scorecard."

"That's pathetic. Everybody's forgotten the good ol' days. Now they just sit there on those freezing aluminum bleachers and let some billboard sponsored by Budweiser do all the thinking for them."

I watched House's expression shift, his eyes wandering as he slid off into a rambling, self-protecting tangent. I sighed against his neck, his facial hair bristling against my skin, and listened to the faint thumping of his pulse against my ears.

Listened. Drifted. I wanted to spurn reality, but it kept circling back.

"But Julie…"

"She came to you. She must want a father in the picture somehow." Matter-of-fact as always; cutting straight to the point. He ducked his head for a moment, then said against his better reasoning, "But I want you in my picture, too."

I grinned, sitting back as if to admire the cheesiness he'd exposed. "Now _there's _a Hallmark card."

"Shut up." He jokingly pushed me off of him, then reached for his cane. On second-thought, he poked at my leg and nodded off toward the kitchen. "Make yourself useful. Find out when she's rescheduling the appointment. I want to come, too. You know you're making me the godfather or something, right?"

"Well, with your mafia connections already, I think you have a pretty good claim to the job," I jested. I was about to point out how calling the hospital at three in the morning was completely pointless when a familiar rattle interrupted me.

"House—?"

"What?" He downed a couple pills, taking a lengthy pause at the end to appreciate them as they spread in his system. After a self-content smile, he tossed me that mocking glare he uses when trying to convince people he's merely humoring their idiocy.

"You—you have Vicodin."

"And a medical condition. Doesn't mean these pills aren't fun, though."

"But I thought you said Cameron took them."

"Nope." House screwed the cap back on and tidily replaced it in his coat pocket. "She didn't."

"So it _was_ one of the other doctors?"

"Nope. Too stupid to think of anything that creative."

"Then… Where did you find it?"

"I never lost it," House replied. He leaned on his cane, pulling himself to his feet, and sighing as he straightened himself up to look at me. "I just took a little hiatus from the pill-popping misanthrope persona. Sorry you missed it. Cameron claimed I was almost _charming_ at the lectures. To Oscar Wilde levels, I believe."

I stared at him, flabbergasted. "You went off of Vicodin by yourself?"

"Stunning, isn't it?"

"But—but _why_?"

He watched me like I might change in front of him, or my expression might lapse into unconcern or boredom, or tire of the conversation. When nothing altered, he cocked his head to the side, regarding me with another sigh.

"Because. I didn't want you to be in pain alone."

"Liar," I retorted. "That's not even close. You probably lost it and just stopped at the hospital for a refill, or you luckily found it where you misplaced it."

A smirk crossed House's face. "Really? How confident are you with that diagnosis, Dr. Wilson?"

It annoyed me to no end that I couldn't tell. He knew it, too.

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"Come on." He nodded off to the room, cutting me off before I could pry anymore. "You're going to look miserable tomorrow if you stay up any longer."

"Are you going back to New York tomorrow?"

"I think Cameron can take it from here."

I paused dubiously. "Cuddy's not going to be thrilled."

"Is she ever? I mean, besides when she's gifted with my company."

"House…" I shook my head with the strange combination of admiring disbelief I reserve for him, and joined him stride by stride. Never had it felt so good falling onto a mattress.

House was changing into a short-sleeved shirt and sweatpants, the clothing rustling. I stretched out across the bed and yanked him by his arm.

"Why the hell are you changing?" I grumbled, tossing up a smile I hoped he could see.

"I thought you were tired."

"Exhausted." I pulled myself up to meet his mouth as my hands played at the neckline of his shirt. "I need a refresher."

I could feel him grinning against my mouth, and the bed sprung a bit as he gingerly settled beside me. I wondered just how throbbing his leg pain was. He'd set the Vicodin on the dresser, within a quick reach.

His hand trailed a solid, almost demanding touch from my torso down. His lips followed quickly after. I lifted my hips as he rid our confining clothes, sealing my slight moan with a deepening kiss, blending into me.

The silent air was punctuated by our breathing, weaving in and out of each other's, a serenade of the silk-sand skin-to-skin sounds and nonsensical murmurs escaping our mouths.

He stopped, but I could feel him watching me.

I wet my lips and whispered. "What?"

Though I couldn't see him in the dark, I knew his expression innately. I blinked several times in a row, unsure if I was closing or opening my eyes; the room was veiled in night and I couldn't tell the difference.

"Ian," he said simply, "would be proud of you."

The dark really didn't matter. I could interpret him without seeing. And I figured that was the most important thing.

I ran a hand through his short, coarse hair and tugged him close to me. "You surprise me, House."

He paused and then visually explored my face. I gazed up at him, enraptured.

"Good," he said. "We're even then."

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_So… I don't think you need me anymore, Jimmy._

Of course I need you.

_No. I mean_ this _me, the one wreaking havoc in your head_.

As much as you'd egotistically like to think so, you're not 'wreaking havoc' up here, House.

_And said so convincingly. That's only because you have enough chaos up here to begin with._

You'd know from experience.

_Doesn't matter. This will be the last time I'll talk with you here_.

Why? You don't have to go. You're annoying, but I'd miss it.

_But there's no point for me to stay here. You've quit pushing me away. The slinky metaphor isn't relevant anymore._

Oh. Yeah, I guess--I guess that's right. Are you sure…you can't stay at all?

_Talk to me in person. It's so much better that way. And I'm much more cantankerous when I'm not a figment of your imagination._

Yes. Wouldn't want to dull that down.

_Wake me up. I'm sure I have a lot to say to you._ _And you to me_.

Later. In the morning. Then we'll figure everything out--you know, with Jules, and the kid, and what excuses we're going to have to use to explain everything.

_That might take awhile._

We have the time. Trust me.

_Yes. For once. All the time we need._

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END


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